Chapter Eleven

"He has DiNozzo's gun?"

His gut wasn't churning; it was turning itself inside out and doing backflips.

Tim nodded slowly. "That's not all he has," he said. "We didn't find Tony's keys, either. Or his wallet. Or his badge."

Gibbs pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. It wasn't bad enough that DelMar had tortured Tony and left him for dead, was it? He'd just had to take it further. He'd stolen his gun and murdered someone with it. He'd kept the keys to his car and apartment. He'd taken off with his ID, his credit cards, his badge.

He had access to Tony's whole life.

"What other evidence are you processing?" Ziva's question was directed at Abby, and Gibbs was grateful to her for getting the conversation back on track.

"Like I said, I'm still waiting on the DNA results – the blood in the basement, the skin under Tony's fingernails and the blood on Santori's clothes."

"All of which will most likely lead us to Marco Santori again." Ziva was as upset about the lack of forward progress as the rest of them were, and her frustration was obvious.

"Major Mass Spec is still chewing on the rope, but I don't think you're gonna like what he says, Gibbs."

"Why not?"

There was another pause, shorter than the ones that had come before, but still heavy. "I've looked at that rope a thousand different ways, under a hundred different magnifications, and it's not … it's the wrong mold." Abby sighed deeply. "It's not Stachybotrys chartarum."

"It's not the same rope used on Brewer and Strauss." Gibbs wasn't asking a question; he was confirming a fact.

"No," Abby answered. "It's not."

Gibbs glanced between Tim and Ziva again, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. "What else have you got going?"

"I've still got the FBI's files on Azari to go through. If there's a link between DelMar and Santori, I'll find it."

"McGee's going to bring you a dartboard and a note to process, along with a few hours' worth of security video, the hospital's security logs, and fingerprints from the staff to use for exclusion." He heard Abby's sharp intake of breath through the speaker, but he didn't give her time to react any more. "Have you talked to Ducky?"

"No." Abby set the fact that he was sending her evidence from the hospital - and what that implied - aside, but Gibbs knew that it was only temporary. He was going to have to answer for not telling her that DelMar had been there, had been within feet of Tony.

"Do you know where he stands?"

"When Jimmy brought up the evidence from Santori's body, he said Ducky was almost finished matching Tony's wounds to your ... to the tools when he got called out to the crime scene. If he's not done with it yet, he will be soon."

"And the profile?"

"He's starting it after he finishes the tools."

Gibbs opened his mouth to speak again, but Tim cut him off. "Let us know when you've got those results back, Abby, and tell Ducky to call either me or Fornell when he's done." Gibbs shot an angry glare in his direction, and Tim shrugged.

"Will do, McGee."

Tim ended the call, and then he looked Gibbs in the eye. "Agent Fornell's rules, Boss, not mine. We can tell you what we get, but you can't be involved in the investigation. Remember?"

Gibbs took a deep breath and blew it out. Tim was right, and he knew it, but he didn't like it.

"Ziva," he said, turning toward her. "Go in and sit with DiNozzo for a few minutes. McGee and I are going down to the security office."

Ziva shot him a look that said she didn't believe him, and he didn't blame her. It was true that he and McGee were about to have a conversation that he didn't want anyone else to be present for, but it was also true that someone had to stay with DiNozzo until the security detail got there. For a second, it looked as though she was going to press the issue, but she decided against it.

"Of course, Gibbs."

She pushed Tony's door open and disappeared through it.

Gibbs spun toward Tim. His eyes were narrow, and he raised his index finger in front of the younger man's face.

"McGee, the next time I try to step up and take over any part of this investigation, you …" He pulled his finger into a loose fist, and then dropped his hand at his side. "… do exactly what you just did."

"What?" The confused, dumbfounded look on Tim's face almost made Gibbs smile.

"You did the right thing. But they aren't Fornell's rules; they're mine. By the book. FBI's jurisdiction." He gave Tim a few seconds to let that sink in, and then nodded at him in confirmation. "Speaking of which, were is Fornell?"

Tim's whole face brightened. "That's the one piece of good news we do have," he said. "Fornell's at the Hoover Building with our witness."

For the first time in more than twelve hours, the churning worry and frustration in his stomach gave way to a bit of hope. "There's a witness?"

Tim nodded excitedly. "Your neighbor, Edgar Collins."

The hope collapsed, and Gibbs' shoulders sank with it.

"He was walking Mugsy when they pulled up last night. He saw them get out of the car with Tony, he talked to one of them, and he knows that …"

"Did you see Mugsy, McGee?"

The interruption took Tim by surprise, but he shook his head in answer to the question.

"Did Fornell?"

"I … I don't know. I think Mr. Collins came to see him at your house, so … Why does that matter?"

Gibbs heaved a sigh. "Because Mugsy's dead. He died three years ago."

"No." Tim stuttered and stammered, and he shook his head again. "No, that's not … That doesn't …. He saw them, Boss. He talked to them. He was standing no further from them than I am from you. They told him Tony was drunk and they were taking him home, but he knew that …"

"And what did he tell you about DiNozzo?"

"Um … that he knew wasn't drunk because he had blood on his face and he didn't smell like alcohol. And he kept saying he's a nice boy and Mugsy likes him."

"Did he tell you DiNozzo's seventeen? Or that he's my son?"

The confusion in Tim's eyes had turned to disbelief. "Why would he tell me that?"

"Because that's what he thinks." Gibbs turned and walked to the nurses' station. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started writing. "He lives with his niece, Carol. She'd be at work right now, but if the nurse gets there to give Edgar his afternoon meds, and he's not there …" He handed Tim the phone number he'd just written down. "You need to call her and tell her where he is. And then call Fornell and tell him to take him home."

Tim stared at the piece of paper in his hand. "But he saw …"

Gibbs turned to face him and locked eyes with him. "Think of the big picture here, McGee. Edgar's not competent to testify. Do you want to put an eighty-two-year-old dementia patient on the stand?"

Tim lifted his chin and stiffened his shoulders. "No. That's not right. That's not how we think, Boss. You've always said that our job is to find the evidence, and it's up to the DA to decide what he can and cannot use. And if Mr. Collins can tell us who pulled Tony out of his car and carried him into your house, then …"

"The defense attorney would have a field day with him. Leaving it up to the DA is a risk we can't take. Not this time."

"You look like a sheet, Tony."

Any other day, he'd have laughed and corrected her, but he had neither the energy nor the inclination. Besides, no matter which way he interpreted what she'd said, she was probably right.

"Losing a few liters of blood will do that to ya."

He couldn't finish a sentence without taking at least three breaths, and that was with the oxygen cannula in his nose. He couldn't talk much above a whisper, and he still sounded like a frog with bronchitis. His throat still hurt, but it wasn't as bad, and the morphine did make talking easier.

Walking was a different story. The five minutes he'd spent walking around the room had been pure hell, and that was with the nurse keeping him steady and Gibbs standing at his side, ready to catch him if he fell. His left leg throbbed with every step, having his left arm strapped to his side threw his balance off, and dragging the IV pole with him everywhere he went was a giant pain in the ass.

As far as he was concerned, there were only three positive things about the whole walking experience. It meant that they were going to release him soon. It meant that the catheter was gone. And even though the only things covering his chest were bandages and his shoulder brace, the gown was gone, and he had pants on.

Ziva walked across the room slowly, and he got the distinct impression that she was nervous. That didn't sit well - Ziva David was never nervous, especially not around him.

"How are you feeling?"

'Exhausted. Hurting. Dizzy. Useless. Kinda freaked out. Stupid. Weak. Pathetic. Scared.'

"Fine."She smiled at him in a way that said she didn't believe him, and he shrugged his good shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

She moved around the room absently, looking at the cheap, cheesy paintings on the wall as if they were the most interesting things she'd ever seen.

"Someone tried to murder my partner. Where else would I be?"

"Tel Aviv."

She stopped her aimless wandering and walked to the chair he was sitting in. "Some things are more important than my vacation," she said. Then she knelt down in front of him and placed her hand gently on the Velcro that circled his left wrist. "You are more important than my vacation."

Her dark eyes bore into his, searching for the truth that he wasn't telling her, and he didn't like it. On a normal day, he'd have stared right back at her and dared her to find what she was looking for, but if he did that, she'd see it. His defenses were weak, he couldn't hide the frustration and pain and fear in his eyes, and he knew it.

He turned his head away.

"Do not hide from me, Tony."

"Not hiding." It was supposed to be a declaration filled with defiance and enough conviction to make her believe it. It was supposed to be a warning to her to back off, an indication that he was handling things on his own. It was supposed to be a way to put the mask back on and the defenses back up.

It wasn't even a complete sentence.

"Talk to me." Her voice was calm and even, and she hadn't removed her hand from his arm. "Tell me what you need."

What did he need? He needed to be able to walk more than five feet by himself without panting from exertion. He needed to see what was under the bandages on his wrists and chest. He needed the pain to go away so he could get rid of the painkillers and his brain could start working again. He needed to pull himself out of what he was feeling and get on with his life, and there was only one way to do that.

"I need to know."

"What do you need to know?"

"Everything. Hell … anything." He took a deep breath and forced himself to face her. "Remember last week? I asked you why one friend would withhold information from another?"

She nodded carefully. "I said that sometimes, it is best for everyone."

"You're wrong, Ziva." He shook his head slowly. "He's wrong. It's not best for me."

"You're telling me to ignore evidence?"

They'd moved away from the nurses' station and Tony's door, and they were alone in the hallway. Tim was standing with his back straight and his head up, his hands loose at his sides and his eyes slightly narrowed. Gibbs was mildly surprised. He knew the kid had backbone, because he'd seen it before, but he never thought it would be used against him.

"What did you say, McGee?"

"You're telling me to ignore evidence," Tim repeated. "We need every lead we can get right now, and you're telling me to throw this one away."

"No, I'm telling you this one's no good and you need to find a better one."

Tim bristled. "And since when do we decide that?"

Gibbs stepped forward angrily. "Since we'll be letting the son of a bitch who tried to kill DiNozzo walk if we screw this up."

"And what are we doing if we ignore the evidence we need to arrest him to start with?" Tim lowered his voice, but he didn't relax his posture. "We need a name, Boss. We need a face. Tony can't give them to us, but Edgar Collins can. We need to take it."

"We know who did it." Gibbs turned to walk away again.

"Do we?" Tim wasn't ready to let it go. Gibbs would have been proud of him for standing his ground, if he hadn't been standing it against him. "Do we really? Where's our proof? Where's our evidence? You think it was Stefano DelMar, and I understand why, but we've got nothing. We've got a dead car thief who didn't wear gloves and a tall man with dark hair whose face we've never seen. That's it."

"Are you questioning my judgment?"

Tim didn't even think about the answer. "Yeah," he said with a nod of his head. "I don't like it but … I guess I am." He took a deep breath before continuing. "I understand what you're saying, and I'll tell Agent Fornell about Mr. Collins, but we have to work with him. If he says DelMar was there, or if he says he wasn't, either way, we have to follow the evidence where it leads us. We want to win this one, and we all need it to be over – especially Tony – but we can't start ignoring evidence or witnesses just because we don't like what they say. That's not how we do things."

Gibbs let the anger flow through him for a few seconds before he admitted to himself that Tim was right. He had sidelined himself because he didn't want to risk compromising the investigation. And even if he had wanted to be involved, Fornell wouldn't have let him. His home was the crime scene. His tools were the weapons. His name was carved into Tony's back. Anyone else would have been a suspect, and if Fornell were doing his job right, he'd have been one, too, if not for his alibi. He was way too close to what had happened, but he was a federal agent. He was used to being in charge, and it was hard to turn it off.

It had always been Tony's job to stand up to him when he was like that, and as much as it irritated him, he'd come to depend on it. No matter what they were investigating, if he lost his objectivity, Tony was always there to pull him up, pull him back, and pull him out of the water when he got in over his head. Until that moment, Gibbs had been so focused on his promise to Ducky, and on what Tony needed from him, that he hadn't stopped to think that he needed something, too. He needed Tony to call him out, talk him down, and make him back off.

Apparently, Tim had been paying attention, and he'd taken a page or two from Tony's book.

Gibbs nodded slowly and gave Tim a small, crooked grin. "DiNozzo would be proud."

Tim relaxed his shoulders and smiled.

Ziva moved her hand from Tony's wrist to his knee, and she settled back on her heels. "What has he told you?"

"Nothing." He leaned back in the chair as far as he could and tried to relax, but it wasn't doing much good.

Ziva did her best to smile, but it didn't reassure him. "He only wished for your memories to return on their own."

Even his fuzzy, drug-addled brain caught the meaning of that. "Wished," he said. "Past tense. Something's changed."

"Yes." She was hesitating, reluctant to answer him, choosing every word carefully. "Abby tested your blood from the b … crime scene." That was almost a slip-up. He'd have to press her on that, if he could remember it. "She found Rohypnol and GHB."

"Oh." He looked down, watched Ziva squeeze his knee, and raised his head slowly. "Kinda hard to recall memories that were never written. Isn't it?"

"Tony …"

"He thinks I'm stupid."

"He does not."

"Stupid, or incompetent, or maybe just drugged out of my head." He'd spent a lot of time thinking about it. At least, he thought he had. And it was the thought that bothered him the most. "I don't know. But he thinks not telling me anything means …" He drew in a breath, a ragged one, and he felt the familiar twinge in his chest that told him his muscles were starting to protest again. "He thinks I don't notice. That I can't see it."

"Can't see what?"

"That I'm cut up like Rob Brewer was." He looked down as he gestured toward his arms and chest. "Exact same. Right down to the … screwdriver hole in my leg." He looked into her eyes, and that time, he didn't care what she saw. He wanted her to see it. He wanted someone to understand. "What does that have to do with me?" he asked. "Is this part of that? Does he think … does he think Stefano did this? Is that why he won't tell me?"

Ziva opened her mouth, but no words came out. She shrugged at him as she shook her head, not in denial, but in refusal to answer.

"Help me, Ziva. I need to know. Give me something. Please." His breathing was starting to speed up again, and he forced himself to concentrate on slowing it back down. "I don't even know who found me. Or where. Or how."

Seconds passed in silence as Tony tried to clear his head, tried to relax and breathe, and tried to study Ziva's face for some indication of what she was thinking. He didn't figure it out until she moved her hand again, from his knee to his right hand, and tightened her fingers around his.

"He found you."

He blinked at her in surprise. "Gibbs?"

She nodded her head slowly. "Yes. Ducky was with him, but it was Gibbs who found you."

"Gibbs saved my life?"

"He and Ducky did, yes."

"But that doesn't … why wouldn't he tell me?" It didn't make any sense. Why would Gibbs want to hide that? Unless it was more about where and how and … "Wait," he whispered. "Where?"

Ziva tightened her grip on his hand again, shifted back onto her knees, and moved closer to him. "In his basement."

"In his …" Tony closed his eyes as a horrible thought occurred to him. "Rob Brewer."

"What about him?" Ziva's voice was barely more than a whisper, and he was grateful to her for that. His head was pounding enough as it was.

"He was tortured with Jack Kale's tools." He drew another breath, one that shook more with emotion than pain. "And I was … with Gibbs' …?"

"Yes."

The first thought that popped into his head wasn't eloquent, but it summed everything up, and it got his point across.

"Shit."